


The Way You Look Tonight

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Series: Adjacent Oneshots [3]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Facts, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern Era, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, also, britain has a mini cooper, but only for each other uwu, hi im back again, jsyk, literally its just fluff, of course, oh yeah, references, thats it, thats just, the first part is anytime post 2014, the second is any part post 2020, they are /fools/, this was an experiment in appearance description so..., to what?, was gonna rate this gen but there's a swear so teen, watch out for those swears kidz, with...whatever this is, yes the title is a sinatra song cause i cant think of anything else dont @ me, you'll find out at some point ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: hiBritain and France go on a couple of dates and stare at each other for a whileThey're in loveIs anyone surprised at this point? Probably not
Relationships: France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Series: Adjacent Oneshots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897894
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20





	The Way You Look Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> welcome back to my dumpster fire, there are s'mores in the back, please make yourself comfortable

  


France swung his legs over the wide concrete railing of one of the many, many bridges that crossed the Seine in Paris, the amber sunset reflecting gold off the dark waters below him. Tourists passed over the bridge, many stopping in front of the same railing France sat on, taking pictures of the silhouetted Eiffel Tower against the champagne sky, the orange sun and peach pink clouds. A beautiful picture, surely, but France didn’t need to photograph the scene to remember the sight. 

He turned around, looking back at Britain, who sat on one of the benches along the bridge, his gaze following the crowd as it moved over the bridge, looking over at France, perhaps sensing his gaze. Their eyes met, and France grinned, gesturing him over.

Britain raised a brow, standing from the bench with a sigh France couldn’t hear but could see in his shoulders, brushing invisible dust off the front of his jacket and suit pants. He walked up to France, standing behind him, resting his hands on the flat concrete beside where France was sitting. He looked up. “Why are we out here again?”

France shrugged, smiling as he smoothed his hand over Britain’s hair, fixing the few stray strands moved askew by the wind. “I wanted to come out and watch the sunset.”

Britain hummed, gently batting France’s hand away and reaching up to fix his own hair, running his hand through it. “There are far too many people to really enjoy it.”

France let out a soft laugh, his hand retreating easily to his previous place on the railing. “There will always be people here, this is the most visited city in the world.” He smiled, turning back to the sky, watching a pair of birds glide overhead, following the carved path of the Seine. 

He glanced back, watching as Britain shifted, resting his forearms on the concrete, leaning on it and gazing ahead, his eyes flicking over the many various parts of the vista before them. 

France looked at him, the light of the setting sun casting his image in a soft, warm glow that made France smile without wholly realizing it. The way the occasional silver white streak threaded through his dark hair, especially at his temples, and down at the base of his neck where the hair was kept much shorter, the cut clean and sharp. Britain had been blessed with thick hair, and France knew exactly what it felt like without having to touch it, knew exactly how it smelled, like light rain and the streets after a storm and a hint of that expensive Chanel cologne France had bought him. Mostly it smelled like the sea salt infused conditioner that France had _also_ bought for him, a number of years back now, because his hair dried out easily.

France resisted the urge to reach out to touch it again, far too many people around, and they’d have plenty of time for all of that when they got home. 

He let his gaze move to the soft line of his cheekbone, the sharper cut of his jaw, only slightly dark from the hair that grew there, which meant Britain had foregone shaving this morning. It added a natural definition to his face that France appreciated, so he didn’t much feel like complaining, not that he would have anyway. He always liked a shadow of facial hair on the other, he liked it when they kissed before Britain had time to shave. He liked the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip, and running his thumb over the lower, which often became chapped in the colder winter months. France was still trying to find the right chapstick for him, one he might actually like and therefore use. 

More than anything else though, France’s eyes always seemed drawn to Britain’s, consistently he looked at them, same as he always had, and always would. They were beautiful eyes, brown eyes with various flecks of gold and streaks of green, shining like jewels in rich earth, glittering gold coins and cuts of pale, polished emerald, glowing amber and carved jade. France could stare at them for hours, had stared at them for hours. They carried the weight of the world but shone when Britain laughed, brighter than the sun itself. They danced with hidden amusement, hardened in anger and softened with despair, and sometimes, the rare, special way they looked only at France could bring him to tears. On the skin around them, too, there sat a number of light freckles, so pale they could hardly be noticed by a casual observer, but France saw them, of course, had spent a number of nights counting them, tracing constellations up to Britain’s temple and down to the ridge of his cheek, over the bridge of his nose. 

Britain turned his head, meeting France’s gaze with a curious expression, another look France knew well on him, he hid it well but Britain was probably the most curious person France had ever met. “I thought you wanted to watch the sunset?” He questioned lightly, glancing at the sun again, and France caught the moment the golden light of the sky hit his eyes and his breath nearly hitched in his throat. Britain always looked so damn good in gold, and even after almost two hundred years of loving him, he still melted when he saw it.

Britain turned back to him, raising a brow and only then did France’s brain actually work to process the words said to him. 

He grinned, though in the expression there remained a strong warmth, a softness to it. “Maybe I found something more beautiful than the sunset to look at.”

Britain huffed, his smile hardly hidden, at least to France, who knew so well all the many hundreds of hidden expressions Britain liked to employ. “You’re ridiculous.”

France shrugged, tucking one leg up and under him, the other swinging off the concrete edge. “Sometimes.” He turned back out to the Seine, still smiling, still far too soft for his reputation.

He heard Britain let out a breath of air in a quiet laugh, and he presumed the other had also turned back to the sunset ahead. 

A moment later he felt a hand rest over his and his smile grew, turning his wrist so their hands could sit intertwined together, their rings hitting with a muffled clink of contact, sitting against one another.

  


* * *

  


Britain let out a sigh, watching the short waves of the English Channel hit the pebbled shore, washing up a few meters before retreating back into the larger body of water, the ocean just beyond the line of the shore calm, a near reflective quality to it with the lack of wind this morning, though it still churned nonetheless, always moving, always alive. A rare sight, to see the waters so calm, as more often than not one saw them disturbed, churning and crashing against the shores. 

He always found a strange longing in his heart whenever he watched the Channel like this, as though in some strange, subconscious way, it called to him. He tended to attribute it to having spent his entire life at this shore, having crossed it a hundred, thousand, ten-thousand times before, knowing he would double that number in due time. He’d always known these shores, and always would. 

A high fog sat overhead, obscuring the northern French shore beyond, the mirror-like waters a soft grey hue, reflecting the color of the lighter fog above but holding a deeper quality within them. A perfect middle ground between the dark grey stones of the shore, and the silver tone of the sky.

He turned his head, looking at where France lounged beside him on their shared beach blanket, watching the ocean with a sharp gaze before he glanced up, meeting Britain’s eye and raising a brow.

Britain only looked at him, choosing not to devote a response to France’s silent question. His gaze danced over France’s form, noting the way the color of his sweater complimented his... something. It complimented him. Some dark blue-teal tone, interspersed with a slightly lighter version of the same color. A rare hue to see on France, Britain almost never saw him wear it. 

He didn’t always say something when whatever France wore looked good, they’d both grow bored of the sentiment after the first week. But he chose to speak up this time, looking back up to France’s eyes. “The teal looks good on you.”

France looked back up at him, opening his mouth a bit, glancing down at his sweater and bringing a hand up to it, pulling it away from his chest as if to look at it closer. “C’est... bleu de Prusse, en fait.” His voice carried a softer quality, and Britain knew he had surprised France with his words. He still liked doing that, though after a couple centuries it started to prove more of a challenge.

He shrugged. “Whatever it is. It suits you.”

France smiled at him. “Merci.”

France had a lot of smiles, now that Britain thought about it, a lot of smiles, and a lot of expressions. France always expressed something with his features, was always... expressing, always emoting, too quickly for Britain to catch every one of them sometimes.

He liked to watch France watch the sunrise, liked the soft smile that came to rest on his face, the content in the moment, the slight, tired drop in his shoulders because for France to be awake during sunrise was a rarity in and of itself. Britain loved the way the amber and gold tones of the early morning sun highlighted the auburns in France’s hair, hard to see in the normal light of day, and only knowledge for those who looked closely. Britain liked the things no one else saw.

The small things, when France hummed quiet melodies in the shower or when he cooked, the excited grin he wore when he drove far too fast on winding roads around the British coast and tested the limits of the tires and turn radius of Britain’s mini, liked to fancy himself some Grand Prix racer. Britain liked watching him get overly irritated with the tourists that traveled the narrow Parisian streets in all seasons, and liked watching him sketch because he had a remarkably intense focus when he did, the tip of his tongue would sit between his teeth, his eyes darting between his subject and the sketch in hand. 

Britain liked France’s eyes quite a bit, the color of the ocean on foggy, grey days just like this, darker than silver, but not dark. Cobblestone paths in a light drizzle, layered slabs of grey marble, slate pebbles with veins of quartz intrusion, and sometimes, in the bright midday sun, a cloudless sky, France’s eyes had the barest hint of a pale, ocean blue. Eyes that reminded him of the Channel, reminded him of home.

He looked at the ocean, and then back at France, comparing the colors with a small nod to himself, sure in his comparison. 

France watched him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smirk as his eyes slid up and down Britain’s figure, pushing himself up, his hand now bearing the weight his elbow and forearm had. He leaned in a bit, resting his other hand, his left hand, on Britain’s shoulder, looking up to his eyes. The silver of his ring complimented the color of his eyes. 

Britain met his gaze, his brow raising in a silent challenge and France grinned, leaning up to kiss him, his body moving quickly, his leg swinging over to straddle Britain, France’s hands cupping his face as he deepened the kiss, such beautiful hands, lithe and slender, though calloused at the tips of his fingers and the center of his palms. Britain hummed his approval, his own hands coming to rest on France’s waist, sitting just above his hips. Britain loved France’s hips.

He closed his eyes reluctantly as they kissed, as France’s thumbs smoothed over his cheeks, and he felt a cool breeze skate over the beach around them, felt France shiver minutely and press himself closer. 

Britain’s hands moved from his waist to his back, sliding down to the hem of his sweater, his fingers playing along it before his hands slipped beneath it to rest on the bare skin of France’s back, delighting in the sharp gasp France let out.

France pulled a hair’s breadth away, his eyes blinking open to glare at Britain. “Your hands are cold.” He complained in a whisper.

“I know.” Britain whispered back, his eyes meeting France’s, a small grin gracing his lips, one he didn’t go to the effort to hide.

France frowned, though his eyes danced with amusement. “You’re horrible.”

Britain hummed. “As the kids say,” He started, his grin widening, “No you.”

France laughed out, dropping his head onto Britain’s shoulder, his shoulders shaking with his laughter. Britain liked the sound.

France turned his head, grinned against Britain’s neck as he placed a couple of kisses to the skin there as Britain let out a soft sigh, tilting his head to allow France the space to do what he pleased. France moved up to his ear, nipping at the lobe of it. “You know what we should do?” He asked, his voice a breath of warmth in the cold air.

Britain put his hands on France’s shoulders, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “France, I’m not fucking you on this public beach, not in the middle of the day.”

France pulled back with a pout, his hands sliding down to Britain’s chest. “But it would be so fun.” He complained.

Britain shook his head, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. “Absolutely not, you’ll have to wait until we get back to the car.” 

He got a heavy, dramatic sigh in response, France’s body dropping against his like a puppet with its strings cut. “I can’t wait that long.” Came the reply, France’s head resting on his shoulder.

“Tough.”

Another sigh, France’s hands traveling up into his hair, carding through it, and Britain smiled, holding France against him and letting himself lay back, coming to rest on the pale beach blanket, the pebbles beneath digging into his back uncomfortably, but he didn’t dare move. 

He watched the sky, his hands trailing over France’s back, the soft sound of the ocean filling the air, the occasional breeze displacing a few strands of France’s hair against his neck. Part of him missed France’s longer hair, the shoulder length style he wore through the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. But he liked this length too. He liked France’s hair in general, so it hardly mattered much.

He closed his eyes, listening to the small waves against the shoreline, his small smile growing amid his content.

  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for making it to the end, my next piece will probably have more plot but no promises  
> ily
> 
> oh yeah the french:  
> c'est bleu de prusse, en fait: it's prussian blue, actually/in fact  
> if u dont know what merci means... google translate exists


End file.
